


December, 1963

by LuceLawliet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst, M/M, Psychiatrist John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuceLawliet/pseuds/LuceLawliet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" ... Holy shit! " Mike let out, putting his hands on his sides.</p><p>" Excuse me? "</p><p>" John! Holmes talked to you. He talked. He did it, oh fuck, he did it, for real! "</p><p>" I don't follow you... "</p><p>" He's been here for almost a year, and I can assure you that he never opened his mouth, except to eat. Not that he eats so often... "</p>
            </blockquote>





	December, 1963

  
  
  
  
John Watson was absently stroking his knees, after reading for the fifth time the email sent by the director of the hospital, less than fifteen minutes ago.  
He did it.  
His requested was approved and he didn't know how to react to that news.  
He sighed heavily, doing to write a reply message, but then, he withdrew his hands.  
Heck, this was his chance. He didn't have to throw it away, now that he could really start again and, who knows, perhaps he could afford to stay indefinitely in London, away from Mary.  
Away from Mary. _Oh, Christ._  
How it sounded wrong, even to think... and yet, it wasn't.  
Dr. Watson gave a quick glance at the miserable dark room, with an unmade bed and the desk on which there was his laptop on, which seemed to invite him to make a decision, to be brave.  
  
<< All right. >> John cleared his throat << All right. >>  
  
His fingers began to press the buttons quickly, without stopping.  
  
<< All right. >>  he kept telling himself, like a litany. He was doing the right thing, and that was, heck, the right time.  
  
He dind't waste time in complicated strings of thanks. He merely asked when he should have started.  
The answer came twenty minutes later. John should have been present on Monday morning, sign a couple of forms and immediately start to work.  
Well, not bad; good place to start in London. Of course, if it was up to him, he would have avoided St Bartholomew's Hospital, but the salary was not so bad, and it was just forty minutes by subway from the room he had rented, where he still lived - survived -. Away from Mary, and from her lies.  
Better than that, he thought, before turning off the laptop and lying on the unmade bed, limping slightly.  
  
  
   
                                                                                                        * * *   
                                                                                                            
  
  
  
  
One thing he had missed, in London, was the rain.  
And to think now, it sounded almost funny. He hated rain, when he was a child. When they were children, coming home from school, he and Harry enjoyed hopping from one puddle to another, bouncing with so much energy that the splashes of mud deposited not only on the edge of the pants and shoes, but also on the arms and raincoats. John still remembered that one time his sister had opened the front door, after both had taken off the shoes, walking silently on tiptoe, until their mother had appeared in the room, with a red and angry face.  
It was always the same story; first they played and then they were scolded. They had to listen their mom yelling against them, keeping head down, John engaged to look his socks and her sister to move the bangs from her face, smearied with mud.  
  
  
That morning it was pouring rain; fortunately, John had had the foresight to bring along an umbrella.  
He paid the taxi and walked as fast as he could. _Easy to say,_ he thought, as he prepared to face the stone steps, outside the building. Before he could even do the first step, he allowed himself a look around and, suddenly, he was assaulted by a deep sense of nostalgia ... the Bart's was still a part of his life, the place where he had studied constantly and with countless sacrifices to get a degree and a job for which he felt he would have been proud of for life. For a moment, with the eyes of his youth, he relived the moment he climbed those stone steps, his first day, alone and lost in the midst of hundreds of unfamiliar faces, happy and nervous, all waiting for the door to open. John frowned.  
Nostalgia and... concern.  
Yep.Because many things had changed during his absence from London.  
The pleasant white plaster that covered the exterior façade of the hospital had crumbled, and now there were left deep rifts that revealed the gray concrete beneath.  
Like open wounds.  
Painful.  
Like a bullet. And a cry. Blood mingled with  dry land, and the sweet face of Harry which overlapped the bodies lying on the ground next to him; Harry who ruffled his hair, Harry who whispered to his face: << You'll see, John, you'll be fine... >>  
_Stop it._  
John shook his head. He took a deep breath, strengthening his grip on the stick.  
The analyst said it was normal, and in a sense quite common that a subject would evoke even unconsciously memories of trauma, not yet completely overcome. A trauma John saw reflected in people's eyes, when they lingered on his leg; he saw it reflected in the mirror in his bathroom, in the morning, just after coming out of the shower; and he saw it reflected even now, through the closed windows of the building in front of him.  
Once it was a simple hospital, in which he and his classmates had spent entire nights between shifts and internships.  
Now, the St Bartholomew's Hospital had become a psychiatric hospital, and considering how much it'd changed appearance outside, John wondered what he might have been expected, once in the inside.  
_Oh, damn. Just do it._  
Climbing the stairs with a cane and umbrella in one hand, and briefcase in the other, turned out to be more challenging than Dr. Watson imagined, and he did not take long to get to the top out of breath.  
He paused only a second to compose himself, then he take a deep breath, raising her head and closing his eyes. He gladly smelled of rain, almost as if that would inspire him courage, then he opened his eyes, finally decided to move.  
  
Then, he saw him.  
  
A too light reflection to be part of the darkness of the window, on the first floor. A window that, unlike others, was ajar.  
The opened umbrella prevented him from having a good view, so John moved it a few centimeters.  
That reflection. What was it?  
He must probably have been mistaken. A trick of light, a strange blue light. The same color London's sky actually assumed, after a violent storm.  
John shook himself when a few drops came in his eyes, and finally realized he had almost completely exposed at the rain. Muttering something under his breath, he hastened covering himself with the umbrella, throwing one last look at that window: just the darkness, no reflection, no picture, no color outside of black behind the glass.  
Surely, he must have been mistaken.  
  
  
  
  
                                                                                                         * * *  
  
  
  
  
  
<< John! John Watson, it's amazing to see you, man! >> the strong and at the same time joyful voice of Mike Stamford was exactly as he had remembered. At least something was left as it was before.  
  
<< Mike, hello. It is a pleasure to see you again... >> John replied politely, once crossed the entrance and dropped the umbrella somewhere. He went up to him, shaking his hand with hesitant air.  
  
Mike caught his eye << I know, I know. I have gained weight. >>  
  
<< No, no. >> John hastened to deny, looking around to take time. The atmosphere was not so bad after all, but at the moment he felt almost embarrassed and he couldn't even explain the reason.  
  
<< How's the leg? Better? >>  
  
<< Oh, as always. Sometimes it bothers me. >>  
  
There was a moment of silence.  
  
<< Can I get you something? The machines are down in the basement, coffee's not bad. Or would you like starting the tour now? >>  
  
<< Now, yes. Please. >> John said with a smile.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The tour was quite quick, since everything in that hospital, from services to emergency exits, was still in John's memory.  
  
The first thing he noticed was the lack of staff and then, with a closer look, even of patients.  
  
<< I suppose you're going to close everything, aren't you? >> he asked to Mike, as he sipped hot coffee, freshly prepared by the machine.  
  
Not bad. Mike was right.  
  
Mike shook his head, with mischievous air << Not at all, man. But as you will have noticed, this place needs a, you know ... facelift. The building is old, the pipes are going to give in and the second floor is very decadent, in theory there should be no danger, but the director doesn't want something bad happenes ... that's why he has proceeded to organize the temporary transfer of all patients at Bethlem Royal Hospital, so they can proceed with the renovations here. Once completed, patients will be transferred back and everything will be back as before. Unfortunately, there's been a problem with the organization and it turned out that there are not enough places available, so we could send away only two-thirds of patients. For the rest, we have to wait a month. The doctor who takes care of them is on maternity leave. Then, a week ago I heard you were back here, so ... here we are. >> He concluded, taking a sip of coffee.  
  
<< How many patients are still here? >>  
  
<< Barely twenty. And the most problematic cases have already been transferred, then you should have no trouble in handling them. >>  
  
John nodded, swinging his glass, thoughtfully, in his hands. Well, it meant that, at least for those thirty days, he would have had more time to adapt. Although, from a certain point of view, he would have almost preferred the opposite. He needed to work; working, at the time was the only thing that would keep his mind and body too busy to think about the mess he was trying to leave behind ...  
  
<< But in the email it was said that my employment period would last at least three months. >>  
  
<< This is because as soon as the last patients will be transferred to the Royal, we will follow them, and then we will have to complain for the next two months, which will be used to make this madhouse healty again. >> Mike sighed, glancing those walls with affection. There, in the basement, it was very cold. Probably the ventilation system had gone ruined. << Then, hey, if the boss likes you, you could have a chance to work indefinitely. >>  
  
<< Yes, I hope so. >> John agreed, shivering. He threw the plastic cup into a trash bin. << Well. Let's go to work, then. How about to introduce me my patients? >>  
  
  
  
  
  
  
How he missed wearing the lab coat.  
As they walked down the corridor of the first floor, going forward from room to room, John was almost getting used to the hackneyed words that, until then,  he had not ceased to repeat at least a dozen times: << Hello, my name is John Watson. I will be your new doctor, for a while; I will take care of you. >>  
  
Some of them responded, even politely. Others didn't even watch him, imprisoned in their own world, probably they could not even hear him. Overall, however, he should have visited them, once in the morning and once the evening. For the rest of time, if there were no emergencies, he would have to loiter with Mike for hours, waiting to finish the round.  
  
<< And here we are, he is the last. >> Mike began, as they approached the last room on the left.  
  
<< Doesn't he have roommates? >>  
  
<< Nah ... I mean, we tried, at first, but he doesn't interact with others. Or rather, he doesn't want to. There could be fifty people in his room and he would still act like he was alone. >>  
  
<< What does this mean? >>  
  
<< You'll see. >> Mike replied, before knocking on the wood of the open door. << Hey, boy! How are you this morning? There is someone who wants to meet you. >>  
  
No answer.  
  
John heard Mike's sigh, and then he moved, leaving him free to look with his eyes the last patient.  
He could not tell if he was a boy or a young man, as he was sitting on the window sill, with his face to the glass. The only thing he saw was a mass of curly black hair, which contrasted markedly with the ivory skin of the neck.  
John gave a look at the young man's room, without finding anything worthy of note.  
  
He cleared his throat, ready to show up, but this time Mike preceded him: << He is an old friend of mine, John Watson. He will be your new doctor, happy? You didn't like the old one, as I recall. >>  
  
While Mike was speaking, John's watchful eyes had gone back on him, and for a moment he was certain that he saw the boy's eyes scrutinizing his figure through the reflection of the glass. That was, even if indirectly, their first exchange of glances.  
John could see his eyes, incredibly clear. He wondered if it was that, the blue he had glimpsed in the rain, just before. He looked, pausing between his thoughts, at the window through which his patient was watching who knows what ... then  Mike's voice, as a snap, brought him back sharply to reality.  
  
<< Ah, damn, I forgot his medical records in the other room. >> Mike muttered, scanning all sheets of the other patients, then he turned toward the door.  
  
After a brief hesitation, John started to follow him, when behind him he heard a low and soft voice ask: << Afghanistan or Iraq? >>  
  
John turned to him, surprised, when an exclamation of surprise instinctively moved his attention to Mike.  
His friend was staring at the young man with his eyes bulging and had dropped all the other folders, which ended up scattered on the floor.  
  
<< N-no, I'll take care of it. >> Stopped him, when he saw John stoop to help. He nervously gestured with his arm, as if to say: << Answer! Immediately! >>  
  
John cleared his throat, smiling at the boy's shoulders again << Uh, Afghanistan. But how did you...? >>  
  
That question had put him in confusion. How could he know that? Perhaps Mike had told something, although John could not quite explain why.  
Something, however, in the incredulous expression of his friend led him to think that Mike had nothing to do with that, which confused him even more. Ok, that was strange, but Mike was overeacting!  
  
<< What is the problem? >> John asked him in a low voice, as soon as Mike got to his feet.  
  
<< John, I ... may I have a word? >> Was all he said, as he settled his glasses, without taking his eyes off the patient. He motioned to John to follow him into the hall, and after a few meters, Mike spoke.  
  
<< ... Holy shit! >> he let out, putting his hands on hips.  
  
<< Excuse me? >>  
  
<< John! Holmes talked to you. He talked. He did it, oh fuck, did it, for real! >>  
  
<< I don't follow you... >>  
  
<< He's been here for almost a year, and I can assure you that he never opened his mouth, except to eat. Not that he eats so often... >>  
  
That last sentence totally surprised John. << Really? >> He said, with growing interest.  
  
<< Holy shit ... >> Mike repeated, and laughed, but he stopped mmediately, giving a pat on John's shoulder. << We must inform the director, now. >>  
  
He turned, twisting happily down the hall. << Hurry up, John! >>  
  
_Easy to say, when you have both legs in place_. John had to keep himself from insulting Mike. His colleague walked so fast that he struggled to keep up. Finally John joined him only because he had stopped to call the elevator, but he rocked nervously on his heels, unable to stay still.  
  
<< Sorry, why all this urgency of reporting to the director? It could have been an case. You saw, when I asked him how he knew that, he turned quietly. By the way, how did he know abou- >>  
  
<< Because his brother brought him here, and when he did, he expressly specified to warn him, if there had been even the slightest change. But do you realize how many psychiatrists have tried to visit him in recent months? Then you arrive, and, bam! I don't believe it. This is not a simple change, it's a step forward! What the fuck, man, it may be that you are able to unlock some w ... >>  
  
<< Mike, Mike, Mike! Hold on a minute >> John snapped, stepping into the elevator. Mike pressed the button for the ground floor, giving him a questioning look. << Don't you think it's a bit too early for such conclusions? He said three words, it may mean nothing. Now, think about what would happen if we were to report to the director, who, I suppose, is in contact with the brother of this - how did you called him? Holmes? - That that patient spoke to us ... >>  
  
<< To _you_ >> Mike corrected him.  
  
John closed his eyes, imposing himself to remain patient. << ...To _me_. We have no guarantee that he will do it again. If only you would have let me read his folder before introducing him to me, I would have been prepared, and I would have taken the leap, trying to insist, to keep him talking. If you told me the true, we've just thrown away a golden opportunity, Mike.  >>  
  
The upset and mortified Mike had in that moment almost made John feel compassion, and suddenly he regretted have being so directed, revealing what he had thought.  
  
<< Although, obviously I'm not completely sure about it, I mean, there could be a chance that you're right ... >> John retorted, trying to fix the situation. In the meanwhile, the elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors opened with a slight ding. << It's just that I think is a bit too early to give hopes which could be vain to his family, don't you think? >>  
  
Mike's eyes lingered toward the director's office, just in front of them. The golden plate was visible, hanging on the closed door.  
  
<< Okay >> Mike finally surrendered. He raised an arm to press the button again, when the director's door opened in front of them.  
  
A youngish man came out; John had never seen him before - probably the old director had retired. - After a brief glance, he sharpened his eyes.  
  
<< Well, well, well! Dr. Watson! I was just wondering when Dr. Stamford would have taken the trouble to entroduce us. >>  
As they came out of the elevator, John clearly saw Mike's cheeks tinged with red patches. Now, considering the accumulated experience over the years in which he and Mike had worked together, there were only three situations that usually led his colleague to blush like that.  
  
1- When he was talking to a beautiful woman.  
2- When he was in the middle of a discussion or a particularly delicate surgery.  
3- When he was in front of someone he was afraid of.  
  
Without prejudice Mike's character over the years did not seem to have changed a bit, John found himself focusing on the last option. Almost certanly the man in front of him was an asshole, therefore John immediately got defensive, while he shook politely but with little enthusiasm, the hand of his new superior.  
  
<< In fact, we were coming for you >> he replied, hoping Mike held his mouth shut about everything that was said in the elevator.  
  
<< It's a pleasure to meet you, even though we had already talked in email. >>  
  
<< Yeah. And, thanks again for giving me the job ... >>  
  
<< It's yours, just for now. If it will still be yours in the future, indefinitely, it's up to you. I have already known several incompetent doctors. >> The man interrupted him, with a twinkle in his amused, blacks eyes.  
  
Yes, OK. He was _definitely_ an asshole.  
  
John forced himself to smile anyway  << Yeah, well. Nice to meet you, Mr ... >> shit, he didn't remember his name. In the e-mails he had signed only with initials. John squinted, trying to read the name written on the plate of the door, behind the man, but the latter preceded him. << James Moriarty. _Please_ , call me Jim. >>


End file.
